A Welk's Chance In A Supernova
by Shok Xone Studios
Summary: A casual stop at a local saloon turns into a violent lifeordeath struggle. Arthur naturally panics while Ford, even with a KillOZap laser rifle in his face, is more concerned with finding some more Janx Spirit.


**A Welk's Chance In A Supernova**

  
  
First, a brief disclaimer:

This long-winded and ultimately pointless yarn takes place outside the continuity already established in any of the previous _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ books/radio programs/ television shows/theatrical features, and therefore no effort should be made to place it within that continuity, for any attempt to do so will likely make your head spin and teeth grind in ways that will make your chiropractor and dentist very happy, but yourself very, very poor and as a result terminally depressed.

Furthermore, all character names, glossary terms, and other assorted familiar bits presented are not the property of this author, but rather _The_ Author who, in skipping out on this galactic-scale clusterf--- planet far too soon, is likely giving Advanced Gods and other deities in the nearest higher planes of reality a thunderous case of the giggles. The taking of legal action against the author of this story will be considered the acts of thoroughly uncool people who shall forever suffer the mightily phlegmy wrath of the Great Green Arkleseizure.

And now, on with our story.

* * *

Somewhere in what is senselessly referred to as the known universe, in a friendly, undisturbed little patch of nothingness surrounding a meager single-sun-and-planet solar system, a spaceship was docking, as custom generally dictates, at a spaceport. The station was a gleaming white with semi-translucent walls and angelically floating platforms that came together in a stunning stepped pyramid of crystalline purity...which completely offset and alienated it from the comparably crummy pale-feces-brown desert terrain it had been shucked upon, along with the sparse, one-story spattering of buildings dumped beside it that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a Sergio Leone film - an insignificant detail since no one this far from the Earth's former orbit knew who Sergio Leone was, or for that matter what impact his films would have on universal cinema had they escaped the grim fate of their planet of origin.

It was from the newly-docked spaceship that Arthur Dent, one of the demolished planet Earth's two sole survivors, and Ford Prefect, a professional intergalactic hitchhiker and resident from the Betelgeuse System who'd spent fifteen years stranded on said demolished planet up until its untimely demise, stepped off and entered the mismatching spaceport.

Well, "stepped off" is something of a relative term, as is their "stepping on" the ship in the first place. Arthur and Ford had never paid spacefare and instead - at Ford's unbreakable persistence - snuck onboard through the ship's underbelly, just barely avoiding a grisly squishing death at the hands of the vessel's landing gear. They spent the trip hiding in the filthy, dimly-lit cargo hold, sleeping upon mattresses they'd personally hunted down and slaughtered in the swamps of Squornshellous Zeta. The exit (read: escape), from the ship involved a second near-crushing encounter with the landing gear.

Arthur guardedly eyed the terminal, his mood disquieted and uneasy as per usual, while Ford loudly complained about the lack of alcohol immediately available to him, which was his standard habit before, during, and now after their flight.

"Not sure I've quite understood this yet," said Ford. "The Janx Spirit is gone?"

"Yes, Ford," Arthur replied, rolling his eyes as he normally did when confronted with this particular line of Ford Prefect's questioning. "The Janx Spirit is gone."

"Why," Ford hissed, his voice rattling with fearful anticipation for the answer, "is the Janx Spirit gone?"

"Well, for one thing," said Arthur, "you only bought three bottles of it for the trip, which is hardly enough to satisfy your thirst for the nasty stuff. Second, you drank all three bottles before we even boarded the ship, so your asking why it's gone now is a rather stupid concept to question, isn't it?"

"But why," Ford insisted, "is the Janx Spirit gone?"

"Haven't a clue, Ford," Arthur placidly yielded, remembering that common sense was a mortal enemy during any conversation involving Ford.

The discussion continued in this vein until they at last exited the lustrous spaceport and came out at ground level with the glorified shantytown.

"Well, there's a saloon of some sort right over there," Arthur announced, much to Ford's instantaneous delight. "What say we--" He could say nothing further as Ford wrapped an iron grip on Arthur's arm and yanked him through the swinging doors like a ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal would its reluctant meal into a nearby cave.

* * *

The room was filled with varied vagabonds from all corners of the galaxy, with most occupying tables distributed around the main floor while one especially multicolored bunch sat themselves at the bar, drunkenly studying their reflections in the back wall's wide mirror.

Convincing the bartender that the few leftover English pounds Arthur kept in his wallet were rare and incredibly valuable currency, Ford managed to boy the entire room a round of drinks for only a fivepence. The entire room, consequently, became Ford's best friend.

A small circle of their new besotted buddies convened at a table just removed from being directly underneath a large wooden chandelier hanging from a chain in the middle of the room. Ford had snared himself in a deep philosophical debate with a Hooloovoo (a superintelligent shade of blue) over the merits of various greens and oranges, while Arthur regailed an arboroid with the history of the East India Company and watching with odd delight as its branches quivered in astonishment at his description of traditional tea-making.

Good times they were, destined to last they were not.

Through the doors came several menacing, hulking beings with lumpy green skin and death-black uniforms. They all looked like evolution had not only abandoned them mid-blueprint, but also insulted them, punched them, kicked them in the genetalia, and possibly even farted on them on its way to the loo, just to hammer in the point. Their greasy, slug-like faces were scrunched with distaste for the saloon's clientele, and their collective odor was eerily reminiscent of the southbound end of a herd of northbound wildebeests. In this or any other age, there is a special designation for these creatures: Vogons. (The _Encyclopedia Galactica_ also lists "unwelcomed guests", "Who let those unhoopy cats in?" and "Holy zarking hell, what is that hideous thing!?" as appropriate terms.)

Chaperoning the unsavory bunch was a short, skinny man in a black general's coat who looked a bit like Lee Van Cleef if his nose were underneath his mouth and his hair looked like uncooked green spaghetti. He appeared to be leading the pack with fierce determination, yet at the same time cowering behind them, shivering and making a sort of whimpering clucking noise like a half-frozen live chicken.

The short one pointed the way toward a specific region of the room, to which the Vogons migrated and encircled, forming a cage around Arthur Dent and Ford Prefect's table.

The biggest, meanest, and ugliest Vogon (which is saying a lot since "biggest, meanest, and ugliest" are yet more common synonyms for the whole of the Vogon race) whipped out a small piece of paper from his breast pocket and waved it in the air.

"Everybody out," he warned, "or I start reading poetry."

Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in all the galaxy, just behind the Azgoths of Kria and Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England. The last time a public reading was held, three hostages suffered multiple brain aneurysms, and another spared himself the agony by forcibly inverting his jaw and swallowing his own head. Mercifully, the ordeal ended with only twelve stoning deaths.

The threat of another public reading was enough to clear the room in seconds.

Except for Ford and Arthur, that is, who in attempting a getaway were met with the Vogons' wide selection of Kill-O-Zap laser rifles. In simultaneous alarm, both Arthur and Ford moved to duck behind one another, only to find this left neither of them protected from incoming gunfire. Facing the problem like men, they decided, was the only available solution, if not the most popular.

"Arthur Philip Dent?" asked the lead Vogon.

"Um....er....Well, see, the thing is...I....That is....er...Yes, what can I do for you?"

"You're under arrest for murder!" squealed the little general. "That's right, you, Dent, you filthy blackguard, you!"

"That's ridiculous!" cried Ford Prefect, finally becoming the braver of the two and stepping between Arthur and the Kill-O-Zap rifles.

"Indeed it is!" Arthur agreed. "I've only killed one person in my entire life, and it was an accident...and I just happen to keep doing it over and over again!"

Ford slid an embarrassed hand down his face and calmly stepped out of the Kill-O-Zap rifle's path.

"We know all about your one-man vendetta against that pour soul Agrajag," the general proclaimed, spine straightened and fists on his hips in classic Superman fashion. "And we're here to put a stop to it, we are! This is the good bit, the denouement, the revenge! The kill-Arthur-Dent end of the story!"

Arthur squinted and leaned toward the little man, perusing the leathery facial wrinkles as if searching for ancient civilizations buried within the creased crevasses. "Agrajag, is that you?"

The general gasped like a startled chimp and jumped back several feet.

"Can't say I'm too fond of the new body," Arthur critiqued. "The black coat is nice, but it completely clashes with the skin color. And don't get me started on the hair."

"Blast it, he's recognized me!" Agrajag roared. "Go on and shoot him before he kills me again!"

"Now wait just one minute!" Ford interjected. "Maybe we can work something out as long as we're all still breathing. Now how about we leave this rock right now and you can stay here with your lumpy buddies, and we'll have no more reason to encounter one another, savvy?"

Arthur, agitation growing, turned his attention to one Vogon who was jabbing the business end of his rifle against Arthur's shoulder in a manner considered neither comfortable nor polite. "Would you point that in another direction, please!?"

He swatted the underside of the rifle, pointing its tip toward the ceiling as it accidentally went off, forcing a bright red glowing beam of laser light to erupt from the weapon, zipping off at an upward angle. The angle was just steep enough to strike the wall base of the chain that suspended the large wooden chandelier in the very center of the room. The chain snapped in two, and the chandelier, if gravity were to have its way and in this case damn well would, came crashing down. Just prior to hitting the floor, General Agrajag looked just above his head, made quick notice of the rapidly plunging furniture, and handed to Arthur Dent the enraged glare of a man about to be struck by a fallen chandelier.

With the Vogons distracted by the sickening crunch of bone cartilage and the splash of splintered wood, Ford, in a stupidly rare display of heroism, shoved Arthur forward and dashed through the circle of soldiers. Together they raced across the room and took a flying leap over the bar counter as dozens of Kill-O-Zap lasers bombarded the bar and the mirrored wall behind it. Ford and Arthur ducked low and shielded themselves while laser beams sailed over their heads and building fragments rained down upon them.

"What in the name of Zarquon did you do to that guy!?" Ford demanded.

"Oh, I told you about him," Arthur answered. "I killed him once. A lot of times, actually! He's been reincarnated Lord knows how many times, and one way or another I end up killing him! One time he was a rabbit that I killed and turned its skin into a bag, then he came back as a fly that I swatted with the rabbit skin bag! Bloody bad luck, to be sure, but you'd think the poor sod would have the good sense to stay dead for once, don't you? I keep trying to tell him it's just destiny being a twit about its duties."

"Well he seems dead set on taking it personally," Ford wrathfully shouted, dusting a smoking piece of glass from his shoulder. "Brilliant idea, by the by, leading us into a corner like this, with the only exit _behind_ the gruesome line of gunfire! Very well done indeed, chap!"

"You're the one who landed us here!" Arthur yelled back. "And you're the one who was so insistent we find some drinks before, Heaven forbid, you sober up a little! This is your doing! In fact, I've noticed a lot of things that happen to us are your fault!"

"You say that like it's a bad thing!"

"As opposed to good?" Arthur spat. "If you hadn't hauled me off of Earth before the Vogons destroyed it, I probably wouldn't have killed poor Agrajag half as many times as I've managed to! I'm not supposed to be here! Maybe Agrajag's right and I ought to be dead! I should have been vaporized along with the rest of the human race!"

In jumping behind the counter in the manner they had, Arthur's bruised, beaten, dented, mud-caked, water-soaked (and from the odor, Arthur suspected, urinated on by NowWhattian boghogs) copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ had fallen out of his bag. Naming it the perfect means of slapping some sense into a wayward friend, Ford picked up the book and swiped it across Arthur's face, hitting him just hard enough to leave a light red impression of the cover's slogan, DON'T PANIC, upon the Earthman's cheek.

"Listen," said Ford, tremblingly waving the battered _Guide_ under Arthur's nose, "if I had an Altarean dollar for every time somebody escaped their homeworld right before it was blown up and then said they were better off getting blown up along with it, I'd be a few bucks richer, and I'd sooner spend it on a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster than make that phone call to my mother that I'd been meaning to make the last twenty years." He paused to peek over the top of the bar to check on the commotion, and ducked in time to dodge a laser blast that would have given him a buzz cut through the middle of his skull. "That was meant to be uplifting in some fashion, but buffalo chips if I know how. I don't hear any more gunshots. Think maybe their rifles ran out of power?"

A cheerful hypothesis it was, and it managed to brighten Arthur's mood much more than Ford's firing squad wall proverbs. Optimism was shortly torpedoed, however, by the astonishingly familiar sound of a very large rocket launcher being unpacked, assembled, checked for defects, loaded, unloaded and reloaded when they found they'd loaded the blasted thing improperly, checked and cleared for defects, and finally fired.

"Am I alone in wishing I was anybody but me at the moment?" asked Arthur.

"I ought to point out," said Ford, "that 'anybody but you' includes me, in which case you'd be no better off. Conversely, if I were you, I'd kiss the floor right about...wait for it...now."

Just as the rocket zoomed over the space between the bar and the back wall, Ford and Arthur pressed themselves flat against the floor. The wall took the brunt of the ensuing explosion, and Arthur self-disputed which he disliked more: the deafening boom emanating not five feet over his head, or the more than slight warming sensation forcing itself against his backside, which he would learn a moment later had set a bit of his hair on fire.

As they unearthed themselves from the shallow pile of smoldering rubble, they noticed the back wall's brand new floor-to-ceiling doorless hatchway and concurrently contemplated a quick, easy escape. Sadly, instead of taking a running start on solid ground, they stopped short at the edge of the saloon floor, where the steeply-sloped face of a thrirty-story skyscraper hovered above a bustling metropolitan city block.

To convince his own mind it wasn't going forty-two varieties of cuckoo, Arthur glanced back toward the entrance just to compare the perplexingly dissimilar landscapes.

* * *

While _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ has a good deal to say on the subject of parallel universes and alternate dimensions, one of its lesser-read sections shares some helpful bits on the incidental entrance thereto. Like the art, or rather knack, of flying - which lies in knowing how to throw yourself at the ground and miss - the act of entering a dimension other than your own is almost entirely involuntary. Thus, those who've otherwise no intention of crossing those usually impregnable gravitational and dimensional barriers are, especially where Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent are involved, the first ones to successfully accomplish the feat.

The Guide itself says the following: _"Stepping into a parallel universe can be as easy as setting fire to one of the gasoline-sweating Oilfolk of the planet Petrolius C. What one has to do with the other is anybody's guess, but the expression, at the time of its conception, did aid the unlearned in better comprehending the point. Some, lamentably, have grasped the point too well for their own good, and in their attempts, equally ingenius and moronic (depending on who you ask), to prove it, they wind up quite sensationally immolating themselves upon it._

_"Take for example the ambitious but doomed Professor Skuidbrey SanLanticus, a leading name at the MMISPWOSO (MaxiMegalon Institute of Slowly and Painfully Working Out the Suprisingly Obvious), who theorized he could transport himself into a parallel universe, without the aid of either a properly-equipped spaceship or a particle accelerator in his back pocket, simply by will alone. For our readers' safety, the particulars of Skuidbrey's experiment will not be reproduced here, for the results of his test are just as horrifying as they are (again, depending on who you ask, how much they've had to drink, and if they're willing to share any with you) intestine-tanglingly hilarious. Given that spontaneous entrance to an alternate dimension is an accidental occurance, the attempt to achieve the same result by intentional will is a contradictory notion; thus, the Professor's theory blew up in his face, along with the rest of his body, which was separated into twenty or thirty-odd pieces and sent spiraling throughout all corners of the space-time continuum across endless parallel universes." _

Professor Skuidbrey's failure remains a harsh but necessary lesson: leave the unexplained unexplained and, instead of wondering what's going on in someone else's dimension, to sit your ass at home and keep it firmly stationed on your own bloody planet. After all, nothing, as the Professor might tell you himself if his head zaps through your sector for more than a few milliseconds, is worse than seeing your own disembodied arm waving goodbye to you.

* * *

"All right, hitchhiking scum!" the lead Vogon bellowed. "You can either die with dignity and let us blow you into itty-bitty pieces, or you can take the scenic route and jump out through the wall."

The ultimatim sparked a friendly but heated debate between Arthur and Ford. They huddled together and graciously argued the virtues and shortcomings of each choice, but then the discussion took a turn for the combative and devolved into a light shoving match. Finally the two appeared to reach an agreement and even shook on it to seal the deal.

"My companion and I have come to a concensus," Ford declared. "We'll take the wall."

From Arthur's startled cry of "What!?", his effeminate shriek, and the ragdoll-esque flailing of his arms and legs as Ford grabbed him and vaulted out the opening, the Vogons gathered that was in actuality not what they had agreed upon. The point, of course, was now moot.

Tumbling down the face of the skyscraper, Arthur's head banged against a window pane and he bounced outward in the air. Nursing his increasing headache, he pondered the day's ludicrous series of events, as well as how much he momentarily despised Ford Prefect for his most recent contribution to the incessant absurdity. He was so enraptured by it, in fact, that he completely missed the thought of his plummeting to the ground, and therefore didn't.

Realizing he was hovering in mid-air, Arthur immediately took his mind off the subject so not to draw the attention of the laws of physics, who he know were rather strict about keeping non-winged beings either on the ground or falling toward it like they were supposed to. He looked down just far enough to see Ford still rolling down the side of the skyscraper and, against the seething hatred that tried to pass itself off as his better judgement, Arthur dove downward, swooped in a dramatic spoon-shaped curve and snatched Ford by his short collar. Unprepared to carry both Ford's and his own weight, unfortunately, their downward descent continued at only a slightly slower velocity. Arthur then endeavored to at least guided himself toward a web of floating sub-etha radio satellites - bulky, spiky, conical apparatuses that looked a bit like harbor buoys except they were several hundred miles removed from the nearest body of water and, lest we forget, poised several hundred feet above sea level.

Sensing the extra weight would soon have the better of them, Ford reached into his satchel and pulled out the intergalactic hitchhiker's handiest, trustiest, most prized possession - his towel. He clawed his fingers into one corner and handed an opposite end to Arthur. Just as they began passing the web of satellites, Arthur released Ford and let physics put its foot down at last; Arthur fell on one side of a satellite, Ford on the other side, and the towel stretched taut as it flung itself upon one of the outreaching antenna spines. The momentum of the sudden stop spun the duo in several complete somersaults around the antenna before they collided head-first and bounced off one another like a pair of wire-suspended ball bearings. Arthur lost his grip on his end of the towel, but thankfully a button on the cuff of his sleeve became entangled on one of the towel's loose threads.

By sheer luck the satellite had drfited through the air just far enough to hang ten or so feet over an office building's level rooftop.

"Perhaps not the most tailor-made position," said Arthur, who even given their proximity to a solid platform could never be quite certain of his own safety, "but I guess we're one step closer to getting off the planet alive."

"The Vogons don't look too keen on that, I'm afraid."

Thirty feet away, directly across from dangling bodies, the Vogons had descended the building's stairs and smashed out the glossy blue-tinged windows, and were once again pointing the rocket launcher in the most irritating direction of all.

As the Vogons took aim, Ford squeezed his eyelids into a suitably frosty pair of cold slits and watched the rocket launcher, gazing down its blackened barrel like a telescope into hell. He tightened a cheek muscle into an ever so subtle smirk that never failed to grab Arthur by his most intimate of body hairs and coil them into permanent braided knots.

"What in blazes are you thinking!?" Arthur shrieked.

With his free hand, Ford reached into Arthur's pocket, grabbed the _Hitchhiker's Guide_, and again slapped Arthur in the face with it.

"Read your cheek," said Ford, pointing the electronic book's reflective display screen at him, "it's good advice."

A second rocket was belched from the launcher. For the first few seconds, Ford remained tranquil and statuesque, and in spite of Arthur's protesting and squirming kept his attention fixated on the incoming bomb. Closer and closer it came, the smell of its spent fuel more profuse and pungent with every foot. Closer still, the shiny missile's apex reflecting Ford's blank poker face and Arthur's profanity-spewing yelps.

Finally, with one mighty Tarzan-inspired swing of his feet, Ford whipped the soles of his shoes at the rocket, striking the very tip of the warhead and reversing its trajectory.

The Vogons, as anyone chased by a rocket-propelled explosive device would be expected to, turned completely around and ran for their lives. Being that a rocket-propelled explosive device can outrun even a pack of extra-motivated Vogons, the rocket won the race and blew the Vogons to greasy bits, like a firecracker in so much cottage cheese.

As the smoke cleared and the entrails settled, Ford released his end of the towel and they both dropped from the satellite, landing seat-first onto the concrete rooftop. Arthur grumbled and massaged his aching neck, back, and posterior, while Ford calmly rummaged through his satchel until he found his other most prized possession, an emergency travel bottle of that Ol' Janx Spirit.

"Knew I had another one of these somewhere!" he trumpeted, his voice slurring even before he began drinking. "Say, you ever played Indian Wrestling? Drinking game. Lots of fun, you'd like it. I usually play to lose."

* * *

Ford played to lose. He played so well that Arthur never even entered the game before the entire bottle was downed in a few sloppy gulps. The rapidity of its consumption, coupled with Ford's dispair that this time it was the very last of his precious Janx Spirit, brought on the accelerated effects of a foul hangover. Luckily, he remained inebriated just long enough for Arthur to coax him into purchasing two first-class tickets for the next flight off the planet - a welcome alternative to challenging the spacecraft's landing gear a third time.

While Ford cradled his throbbing head in his hands as if his brains were leaking, Arthur stared heedfully out the cabin's observation skylight, watching a closeby nebula swirl, waver, and change colors like a translucent blanket of chameleon skin.

"Ford," he said at last, "there's something I've been wanting to ask you for quite a while."

"Can it remain unasked," Ford waspishly replied, "until the fault lines in my skull stop shifting?"

"Were I in your place, would you offer me that curteousy?"

Ford groaned and growled like a constipated grizzly and made a finger-down-the-throat gesture. "Ask away."

"The day the Earth was demolished," said Arthur, "you could have taken anybody you wanted with you, or you could even have just said 'gall stones to the lot of them' and just saved your own skin." Ford failed to pick up the clues to where this was going, so Arthur continued, "Given your options, however limited, why save me of all people?"

Ford lifted himself into an upright seated position, turned to Arthur, leaned in, and goggled at him with a gloomy pair of bloodshot eyes.

"What do you do, Arthur," he asked, "when faced with the great unknowns of the universe?"

"Panic?"

"Before that."

"Scream bloody murder?"

"Before that."

"Run around in circles waving my arms like decapitated poultry?"

"Before that even," said Ford. "You, in your own words as I recall, wait until you've settled into the situation and found your bearings..._then_ you start panicking. Which is volumes more than I can say about the rest of the bloody human race, far as I'm concerned. You ask a million annoying questions a day, you get me in heaps of trouble that otherwise I'd be causing, and you are, for all intents and purposes, a clueless pain in the ass."

He began thumping an index finger against Arthur's chest in rhythm with his closing arguments:

"And I wouldn't...miss it...for the world."

That said, Ford reclined in his seat and passed out, snoring like a motorboat with indigestion.

Through the skylight, Arthur watched the sun of a distant solar system emerge from behind its largest planet. The inky blackness around it brightened in a rich golden halo, and a few hair-thin rainbow patterns filtered in through the skylight's reinforced glass.

He watched, he smiled hopefully, and he softly hummed "I'll Follow The Sun" until the gelatinous, tentacled creature sitting to his left instructed him to kindly shut the fuck up. Or whatever it was that bubbled from its multiple pairs of lips.


End file.
